


Wrought

by gummycola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Love at First Sight, M/M, Matthew only has one leg and I don't know why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-02 00:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12715794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummycola/pseuds/gummycola
Summary: King Arthur travels to fetch a sword from blacksmith Alfred, and finds a kindred spirit as fiery as his forge.





	Wrought

After a week’s worth of rain, the sun was a flavorless delicacy on Francis’ skin. It had barely breached the horizon when they set out, his King restless and excited, the fine weather making him doubly eager. Arthur looked out of place in his thin and short-sleeved tunic, devoid of the usual splendor he used to hide his small frame. Francis soon came to envy him his attire; his own shining silk was wrinkled and damp with sweat by the time they reached the blacksmith’s near-cloistered home.

The blacksmith was waiting, sprawled beneath the shade of a tree, asleep in the dappled light. Francis regarded him with amusement as Arthur dismounted and strode toward him, readying his foot for a kick.

“Alfred!”

The door to the house was open, and in it sat a replica of the (now awake) man at their feet, minus one leg. He slid down carefully from his high stool and balanced himself on wooden crutches before hurrying toward the three men.

“M’so sorry, m’so sorry, your majesty, sir.” He muttered, eyes down, as he moved with impressive speed toward his twin and delivered a kick of his own.

Francis, still on horseback, offered his applause. Arthur’s royal brow had disappeared into his hairline. The blacksmith glared at his brother before striding toward the house.

“Your sword’s right here.” He began to reach toward the left of the door, but stopped short and pulled back to gaze distrustfully toward Arthur. “You’ve got the gold, right?”

The twin made a strangled noise, and Francis, finally dismounting, nearly fell to the ground. Arthur’s face was blank as he replied.

“You’ll have your gold when I see the merit of your steel. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, at last.” He added sarcastically, turning toward the paling young man who was now teetering on his crutches. “And you are?”

“Matthew, your majesty, sir, and it is my— _our_ —honor to make your acquaintance, and Alfred is _so, so_ — _”_

“Not sorry. Gods, Matthew, he’s a King, not a…well. Not a God.” Alfred had a wicked grin, Francis thought, and it made him uneasy. The way he held a massive wooden box in one careless hand increased that feeling tenfold. But Arthur was as collected as ever as he removed his gloves and nodded toward the box.

“If you would be so kind as to open it, please.” He stated coolly, and Alfred bowed slightly as he obeyed, pulling the lid up to reveal, Gods be kind, the most beautiful weapon Francis had ever seen.

He held his breath as Arthur reached forward to lift it, his slender fingers resting a moment on the ruby in its pommel before he gripped the hilt firmly and pulled it away with ease.

The twins wisely stepped away before Arthur began to test the blade. He held it aloft in one hand, then two, swinging it gracefully before him, behind him, whirling it in a smooth and perfect circle, his skilled wrists rolling and guiding the weapon like a deadly baton.

Satisfied with the weight, he pulled a piece of silk from his pocket before casting his eyes toward Alfred. Seeing the man’s steadfast and confident gaze, he let the silk drop onto the edge of the blade. It fell away in two pieces, and Francis’ breath left him.

Arthur’s smile was giddy. He seated the blade in the box again. “You’ve lived up to the promise you made, lad. The fifteen thousand is yours.”

Matthew had moved to his brother’s side. He gripped his arm with tremulous excitement. The blacksmith bowed, lower this time, his hand coming to grip his brother’s as he rose.

“Thank you. We’ve ale, fresh from the brewery. It would honor us to have the King join us for a drink.” He was more relaxed now, and Francis wondered if his earlier rudeness had merely been a mask for his nerves. He was an awfully young man after all, even younger than his King.

Never one to turn down drink, Arthur accepted, and they were seated in the clean and bright space of the blacksmith’s humble home. The ale was good, and the conversation came easy. Francis had found a lovely little kitten to entertain himself, and the King had found a wolf to tease.

“Now, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying, the old King was _much_ better than the boy we have in there now.” Alfred mocked, his toughened fingers tracing the rim of a metal mug of beer. “Heard that guy’s elf-blood. Trickster.” The rudeness had not been the result of nerves after all. He was just a naturally boastful sort.

Luckily, Arthur rejected challenges even less often than he rejected alcohol. “I’d not speak of elf-blood, love. Your eyes and ears betray you.” He gestured toward the slightly pointed tips of the blacksmith’s reddened ears. “No wonder you’re drawn to flame, fairy.”

Matthew tugged self-consciously on his own ears, and the table grew quiet.

“Remnants of a man we’d rather not recall.” Alfred answered at last. “The old king’s _beloved_ knight, no less, if you must know, and it’s better that you do.” He leaned back as he spoke, bringing one arm behind his brother. “You share your ale with the bastard sons of the exiled fae knight!” he exclaimed with mock pride.

Arthur was tickled by that, and Francis too. They laughed, clapping each other about the shoulders. “Why, you ought to have said so before.” Arthur exclaimed. “The bastard King is pleased to meet you.” His green eyes danced with mirth as he absorbed two perfectly matched shocked expressions. “The talk of the court doesn’t reach the tables of inns, I suppose. It was once considered a well-guarded secret, as well.” Arthur shrugged and stood.

“I’d love to relish the company longer, I assure you, but we must depart before sunset. Francis, his gold?”

Francis produced the bags. He laid them on the table, searching the identical faces, but the men remained quiet, their eyes on the wealth before them.

“Be wary of thieves,” Arthur advised “and look for a squire in two days time. I’ll have another assignment.” He exited, Francis following behind.

Francis looked back, expecting farewell or thanks, but found the men as before, their eyes on the gold and their hands clasped tightly together. He turned away again.

The ride back was as merry as the first. Arthur hummed the disjointed, atypical rhythms of his ancestors, and Francis waited for what he knew was coming. He did not have to wait long.

“My court’s awfully drab, isn’t it, Francis? And highborn. And legitimate. And brunette, Gods!”

“He is wonderfully blond, sir. And he comes with a replacement, should anything happen to the first.” Francis replied. But he smiled. The journey back would be an annoyance, the trial of convincing the blacksmith atrocious, the sure-to-be disastrous courting his awkward King would supply, a huge headache.

Ah, but Francis loved love.

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing I wrote for 365 days of USUK in 2014. I adore this story. I think I like it best of everything I've ever written. I love fantasy AUs and I love these boys. I love you too, reader. Follow me on Tumblr? Gummycolecube is me.


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